The Ballad of War
by cagedghost
Summary: An AU in which Thomas and Jimmy are left to develop a relationship during WWI.
1. Chapter 1

He doesn't belong here, Thomas keeps repeating, over and over in his mind. He doesn't belong here, but yet he stays, chained to his destiny of horror and death. The mantra soon usurps his conscious, and each day feels like a dream from which he shall never awake.

And each night he curls in on himself, barren and alone in the filthy trenches, trembling hands barely able to grip his gun. As the deafening storm of bullets rain millimetres above his head, Thomas repeats it.

I don't belong here I don't belong here I don't belong here-

"I really don't belong here." A voice punctures the air, followed by a soft laugh.

Panic-stricken, Thomas clutches his rifle tight to his chest and looks to his right, not ready to die by the hands of a mind-reader. A fellow soldier settles in close beside him. He loosens his grip, relaxing.

"The name's Jimmy Kent, Private." Jimmy flashes him a smile, hands busily reloading his gun.

Jimmy is very young and handsome; Thomas can't help but notice, with bright eyes and an easy air about him.

He feels his chest swell from their proximity. Keeps his eyes straight ahead, and responds. "Thomas Barrow, would-be-medic."

Jimmy nods, still grinning despite the unrelenting onslaught of bullets overhead. "Shouldn't you be elsewhere? Out of the line of fire perhaps?"

Thomas tightens his jaw slightly. "Couldn't. Got drafted here cos we're fightin' for a daft lot."

Jimmy laughs heartily. "Amen to that!" He glances around, leans in closer so Thomas can hear. "Fancy a drink, Barrow?" He has to strain his voice.

Thomas' mouth waters, craving the taste that will deliver him to another, safer place. He nods.

Reaching into a pocket, the young man procures a metal flask, uncapping it and taking a deep swig. He exhales appreciatively and offers it to Thomas.

Thomas accepts the flask, still warm from Jimmy's hand. He hesitates, realising that the other male's lips were upon the neck of the bottle just a moment ago. He drinks deeply, colouring, and feels thankful for the night's ability to obscure.

"Tell me about yourself." Jimmy says.

Thomas shrugs, a pleasant warmth working its way through his veins. He takes another gulp and passes the flask back. "There isn't much to tell."

"Tell me anyway." And Jimmy is so beautiful and warm beside him, Thomas tells him.

"Maybe I'll go into service after the war," Jimmy muses. "At this Downton you speak so fondly of." He smiles at Thomas again.

Thomas' heart skips a beat and he finds himself nodding eagerly. "I'd like that very much." The alcohol starts to blur the line between friendship and intimacy, and he places his hand on the Private's knee, squeezes it.

The younger male stiffens visibly, cueing Thomas to retract his hand. "Sorry." He mumbles.

"No worries." Jimmy waves it off, and Thomas knows it's most likely the whiskey that has made him react so civilly.

They continue to talk into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

When morning gleams overhead, Thomas awakes with a jolt. He automatically looks to his right. No Jimmy. Perhaps it was all but a dream, he tells himself. It fails to placate his aching chest. He led himself to believe that he had acquired a friend.

"Ah, finally you're up!" And Jimmy is standing above him, his cocky grin in place. The sun catches in his hair, illuminates his silhouette. He is gilded, Thomas decides. "I brought you a bit of breakfast to eat before the stand-to."

Thomas accepts the hard biscuit. It is of no comfort to his eternally growling stomach. But the fact that Jimmy thought of him at all provides him with a much more different variant of nourishment. He chews mechanically, wanting to prolong the moment for as long as he can stretch it.

"It's quiet-like today." He says, noticing the lack of metal streaming about. Every now and then, a distant explosion echoes in the air.

Jimmy nods. "The calm before the storm, I presume," He bumps the toe of his boot against the duckboard below them, lingering. Thomas glances up at him before averting his gaze. He reminds himself that he mustn't cock-up again, or else he might lose his only friend.

"You slept well enough last night. I was glad to see one of us gettin' it." Jimmy says, still standing. His tone is friendly, open.

Thomas pauses mid-chew, and regards Jimmy with surprise. "You should have woken me." He doesn't mean it, but his voice is clipped.

Jimmy shrugs, still nudging his boot against the board, almost shyly. "You looked peaceful. Didn't want to disturb you."

Thomas feels his face grow warm as he thinks about Jimmy allowing him sleep. Swallowing, he tries block his feelings out. "I thank you very much for that, but I must insist that you never prevent me from fulfilling my duty again. It reflects badly upon our integrity." He closes his mouth before he can fill the air with any further malarkey.

The blond nods. "Yes. Well, I must be going then." His boots trod off.

When Thomas allows himself to look up again, he sees another biscuit that Jimmy left for him.

**[[ AN: Apologies for the slow start; there are many, many chapters ahead. Some will be short and succinct, others long and dreadfully lengthy! ]]**


	3. Chapter 3

Thomas confronts Jimmy later in the day when they're sent to clean their guns.

He pulls the biscuit out of his pocket, looks at Jimmy through narrowed eyes. "Do you take me for a weak man?"

The blond's mouth quirks up slightly. "I've no idea what you're gettin' at," He eyes the biscuit. "Ah," The Private plucks out of Thomas' hand and pops it into his mouth. "Thanks for keepin' it warm!"

Thomas can't help the smile that pulls at his lips.

It's night. Thomas is crying because he hates how filthy he feels, knee-deep in the disease-riddled cesspool of human remains and mud. He can't stand the rats that clamber around as if they own the land, incessant squeaks causing his ears to ring. He doesn't belong here he doesn't belong here. There's blood spattered against his uniform. It belongs to a man who was stationed beside him. Henry was his name. Thomas didn't see it, but Henry was alive and reminiscing about the vivid green meadows of his hometown and then he was gone, half of his forehead blown off. Hedoesn'tbelonghere. There had been a horrible gurgling moan from Henry, who panted out wet, rattling breaths before he finally lay still, eyes dead to the world. There was nothing Thomas could do and later the rats scrambled on top of each other, eagerly consuming Henry, gorging themselves on his bloated flesh and bones. Thomas had started to tremble violently and vomited, unable to stand the acrid stench that permeated his nostrils.

Now men run up and down the trenches, using the darkness to their advantage. They hand out rations and perform maintenance. Thomas can barely keep his eyes open. His relief is clear when the new units arrive, allowing him to relocate to the rear for a short while. He keeps his head down, tries not to think about the artillery and shrapnel he narrowly avoids en route.

As he huddles up in a corner, he forces himself to try and forget what he saw. But the images flash back and forth, haunting his mind, plaguing his thoughts. He finds himself wanting Jimmy's company. He wants to hold and protect, to be held and protected. He stands, leaning against the firm mountain of dirt. Pulls out a battered pack of cigarettes, allowing himself the luxury of holding one. It's been days since he let himself smoke. Food isn't the only item to be rationed. His fingers clasp his lighter, and he struggles with the wind blowing.

And then there are cupped hands shielding the flame, and Thomas can light it. He brings the cigarette to his lips. Inhales. "Thanks."

Jimmy nods, moving to stand beside Thomas.

"Mind bandaging up a scratch for me?" Jimmy rolls up his sleeve, revealing a jagged line of torn, bloodied flesh that traveled the length of his forearm. The skin is red and raw, an angry welt rising; infected.

Trying not to blanche, Thomas regards it. "Why didn't you ask one of the medics with you?"

"I wanted only you to do it," Jimmy says as he shrugs. He meets Thomas' eyes, simpering smile in place. "Is that so bad, Mr. Barrow?" He asks softly, leaning in. Thomas blushes, very desperately wanting to close the distance between their mouths. Instead, he averts his eyes and turns to lead Jimmy to a crude concave impression in the trenches; a makeshift alcove. "How did this happen?" He flicks away his cigarette, rummaging around in a tin box, finding gauze, a needle, and some thin wire.

Jimmy sits on the dirt floor, paling at the sight of the needle. He swallows audibly. "Just uh. Got caught in some barbed wire."

Thomas slides his eyes from Jimmy's weary expression to his wound. "You still have that whiskey?" Jimmy nods.

"Good. Drink a bit, but save some," When Jimmy shakily passes the flask to him, Thomas pours it over the jagged cut. Jimmy hisses, flinching slightly. Thomas presses the empty flask to his open palm, advising, "It wouldn't hurt to bite on it."

He threads the needle and pinches the separated flesh together before quickly piercing the skin, pushing the needle through and looping it back. When he glances up to check on Jimmy, the blond has long since passed out.

Thomas finishes the stitching procedure, and carefully wraps the gauze around Jimmy's arm, rolling his sleeve back to the cuff. He stands, watching the other sleep. Crouching down, he slides a hand under the small of Jimmy's back, another under his neck, and lifts the blond into his arms. He is hyperaware of Jimmy's every breath and beat of his heart; his body feeling so warm and solid against Thomas'. Thomas carries him to a cot, delicately laying him upon it. He sits at the foot of the bed for a while, raking a hand through his loosened hair, trying to calm his nerves.

Minutes later, Jimmy is awake and groggily thanking Thomas for the hellish throbbing pain in his arm.

Thomas smirks and watches him wince in pain out of the corner of his eye. When Jimmy sighs sullenly and looks up to the inky skies, his gaze rakes over the exposed band of flesh, smooth and firm. He aches to bury his face in it. He deftly procures another cigarette from the dwindling number of his pack and lights it.

"Let's make a pact, you and I." Jimmy says, sitting up and looking at him now.

Thomas feigns consideration, exhaling silvery strands. He closes his eyes, relishes in the sweet smoke filling his lungs, no doubt staining them as black as the night. "What?"

Jimmy hesitates. He looks around before leaning in closer to Thomas, as if to share a secret. "I suppose you could say my eyes were opened today from this," He gestured to his injured arm. "So... if I were to be seriously injured, I want you to swear that you'd put me out of misery," His voices wavers slightly. "I wouldn't want to live without any of my limbs..."

Thomas frowns. "You shouldn't waste time on that kind of talk," He flicks the crumbling ash from his cigarette. "Don't even think about rubbish like that."

"Sod it," Jimmy shakes his head, persisting. "I like to plan ahead, see."

He moves closer and Thomas detects traces of mint chewing gum intermingling with another fragrance. He can only describe it as clean warmth. "You're my only mate, the only man I see fit to do the job ... of doin' me in." Thomas almost stops breathing. Only ... mate?

He is unable to comprehend why Jimmy would choose him, let alone assume he could do it. He could never. Not in a million lifetimes.

The blond is closer than he's ever been before, pressing a hand to Thomas' shoulder. His mud-caked uniform crinkles audibly from the pressure. "Listen to me! I need to know that I can trust you..."

Thomas forgets himself; unable to stop and think as he covers Jimmy's wrist with his own hand and murmurs, "Course you can trust me."

Jimmy either doesn't mind the contact or doesn't notice it, only nods solemnly. "So we're agreed then?" He's glancing up at Thomas earnestly.

Only wanting to please him, Thomas wishes he could nod. But he can't. "Don't... let's not talk of it, Jimmy," he whispers.

Jimmy sighs, exasperated, and slides his hand off. Thomas can still feel the warm imprint it leaves behind.

That night, he dreams of living on a paradisal island with Jimmy, walking arm in arm along the beach and mapping out the cosmos.

"Clocks are nice," Jimmy tells him in the dream. He points up to a web of glittering stars, a constellation. "That one looks like a longcase," He says. Thomas squints up, and is surprised to see that the cluster really does resemble one, pendulum and everything. It seems perfectly natural when the starry clock's hands move about. Jimmy gestures to the sea. "But pianos are much better."

Thomas laughs. "Will you play me a song, then?"

Jimmy looks him square in the eye. "Will you put me out of my misery if I ask?" For some reason, this makes Thomas laugh even harder. Jimmy chuckles with him, walking on.

The blond pauses where the dark waters lap against the sand, bending to remove his boots.

"Do play me a song, Jimmy?" Thomas begs, reaching out to take the boots.

Jimmy shrugs, rolling up his trousers to cuff at his calves. When he rises, he's wearing a footman's livery. "Makes no difference to me." He walks out into the gentle waves, coattails fluttering in the wind and looks back toward Thomas, smiling knowingly. A familiar shape slowly emerges from the sea, foamy water sluicing away from its glossy exterior. Jimmy's mouth widens to a grin, and he takes a seat before the large, grande piano. He runs his hands over the damp alabaster keys, fingers doling out a melancholy, nautical tune. His voice, rich yet light, accompanies the morose string of notes.

Thomas listens from the stretch of sand. "You're so lovely," He breathes, feeling his eyes grow wet. "You're ever so lovely..." Soft drops patter the sand, indenting it. He glances down, confused when he notices the drips are a deep crimson. He wipes at his eyes with the side of his hand, only to be horrified when he pulls his fingers away, gleaming red in the moonlight.

His eyes begin to well up with the warm, thick liquid, coating his vision. Stumbling about, he cries out, "Help me...!"

"Hmm, 'fraid I don't know that one, Corporal," Jimmy calls, still pounding away at the keys. He switches to a frenzied number, hitting the notes in time, synchronising with Thomas' panicked steps.

Thomas sags to the ground on his knees. Despite his current condition, he finds himself calmly asking, "I'm not a Corporal...why did you call me that?" Drips of the liquid slide into his mouth; a metallic tang.

"Oh, that's right...guess I spoiled it," Suddenly Jimmy's voice is nearer, though the music still plays. Thomas feels two arms hook under his, and he is tugged up. The other's voice is right by his ear, slightly out of breath. "Oh well. You'll be a Sergeant soon enough, too. Loads of respect for you then. Nobody will be able to push you around, even if you're different..." Thomas grunts as he's dragged across the coarse land. The sand quickly transitions into water, and Jimmy dunks his head into the cold sea.

Reeling back, Thomas splutters, eyes flying open. His throat burns and he slaps his hands to his face, peers at them warily. Any hint of blood is erased, and only salty drops of seawater cling to his face. He catches their reflection in the water; Jimmy is smiling sadly as he tucks a loose ebony tendril of hair behind Thomas' ear.

"Such a pity that it ends the way it does," Jimmy murmurs, pressing a kiss to his cheek. The music abruptly stops.

Before Thomas can ask how what ends, Jimmy is gone.

The next day, he's promoted to Corporal.

Jimmy gives him a congratulatory clap him on the back. "Guess you're movin' up in the world, Barrow!"

Thomas smiles shakily against his cigarette, plums of smoke flowing from his mouth as he forces a laugh. "That's Corporal Barrow, Private."

Jimmy looks down, then up at the sky again. Thomas is enraptured by his golden lashes, his beauty. The mud smeared across the blond's complexion makes him look even younger, his eyes bluer. Thomas wants to reach out, trace the contours of Jimmy's face, memorize each dip and curve, map out his geography and investigate every feature.

He finally admits to himself that he loves this man whom he barely knows. He can't help it; Jimmy is pure and lovely and endearing. Thomas savours every shared word, look, and touch. He would give anything for Jimmy to love him back. He waits for a sign- any at all to let him take a step forward, yet only obstacles appear, and Thomas is unable to clear them. But friendship is enough, he tells himself. At least, he is still able to pretend and imagine and dream... Fragments of last night's dream flicker in his mind, and a frown tugs at his lips. Even dreaming is becoming impossible. When it's not a recollection of the day's horrid events, it's a puzzling fantasy involving Jimmy. He takes one last drag, stubs out his cigarette, and neatly tucks his lighter away in his pocket, along with his troublesome feelings.


	4. Chapter 4

"Have you got a proper girl back home?" Jimmy asks one night. He pulls out a deck of playing cards, shuffling them fluidly.

Thomas searches for a suitable response.

"Nothing like that," He settles for.

"Well, there is one... Though we're only friends." He pauses, frowning. "Actually, we're more akin to acquaintances, if anything." Partners-in-crime is more like it, he thinks to himself.

Jimmy raises a brow, smirking slightly. "Oh, come now. There must be more to her."

Grimacing, Thomas shakes his head. "I would hope not; she's old enough to be my mother."

It elicits a laugh from Jimmy.

"What about you?" Thomas finds himself inquiring, though he doesn't want to hear the answer.

Jimmy shoots him a pointed look. "There were a few that I could have had," He chuckles at the bawdy double meaning behind his words. "But... they weren't anything special. Pretty, yes. But remotely interesting? No. Anyway, I'm not that keen on settlin' down right now. I'd rather be young 'n such while I've got me chance." He spreads the cards out with a flourish.

Thomas stares at him, quickly calculating in his mind. There's a chance...

"So you must get hoards of girls everywhere you go, a lad like you." He can't help but be forward, he so desperately wants to compliment Jimmy.

The Private beams at him. "Both a blessing and a curse," He glances down at his cards, then up. "As for you," He looks Thomas over. "I'm sure you could get your pick of the litter."

"If I was so inclined, yes." Thomas muses, reaching out to take the deck. He flips the cards forward and bends them, filing one by one into his other hand in a matter of seconds.

Jimmy arches a brow. "Impressive."

But Thomas doesn't hear. He thinks about Daisy, how smitten she was with him, and William. How he used to intentionally sabotage each of William's attempts to woo the kitchen maid. He broke not one heart, but two. Guilt manifested itself into his conscience. William was fighting in the war as well... was he even still alive?

Before he can ponder upon the past any longer, a deafening explosion rattles the earth, sending sprays of dirt over their heads.

"Shit!" Jimmy yells, stumbling to grab his rifle. "Shit!"

When the ringing in his ears lessens, Thomas scrambles away, moving to stand. Another explosive shell hits the ground, the impact sending both men sprawling. Thomas struggles to breathe as he forces himself to move amid the shouts and gunshots.

"Thomas, move! Move!" Jimmy is screaming at him, tugging him up to his feet. They trip over various bodies and detritus, running toward a passageway into the support trench. Artillery fire hits the ground behind them, shrapnel shooting out everywhere.

Thomas staggers, holding onto Jimmy as they move behind an alcove. A nearby soldier is writhing in pain as blood flows freely from the splintered crimson stump that was once his arm.

"Bloody hell! Jesus..." Jimmy is gasping for breath, wildly looking about.

Thomas glances down; he's still holding the cards, so tight that they dig into his skin. He quickly pockets them.

_There's nothing but death among the littered bodies and panicked shouts_, Thomas thinks. _There's nothing but the dead and the dying_. He needs to round up a barrage, find his company and send reinforcements to the front-line; do his job. But for some reason, his mind cannot and will not function. He wants to sit and wait for it to end.

A steady hum fills his ears, and Thomas finds that if he listens close enough, he can make out the familiar tick-tock-tick-tock of his father's workshop. A myriad of clicks and chimes sound, blending into one uniform beat. Thomas can almost envision the rows and rows of various clocks and pocket watches, wood and brass gleaming together as they tick out his name. Tho-mas. Tho-mas. Tho-mas.

"Thomas! You git! Come on!"

And Jimmy leads him to safety.


	5. Chapter 5

Later, as he's tending to the plethora of wounded soldiers, Thomas remembers the cards in his pocket.

Not wanting to blemish the deck, he wipes his hands, disturbed to find they're stained red. Like the dream... he thinks.

He tugs the cards out, shuffling through them absent-mindedly. As one flashes by, a scribbling upon its surface catches his eye. He files the cards back until he finds it. It's the ace of spades. Squinting, he finds that it reads:

First week into it and am already missing home. Admit that I sound like a nancy, but it's true. It's ever so cold, then too hot. Have witnessed more horrid things in the span of five days than me whole life. Have found solace though. Is very odd, but am grateful for the distraction.

The hurried scrawl can only be Jimmy's, Thomas decides. And he must be writing about the war. Some sort of diary, he supposes. He replaces the card and searches for any other entry, but is unsuccessful.

Hours after he's returned the deck to Jimmy, Thomas lies awake, his fingers skimming over the rectangular edges of his stolen card, very much wanting to be the written "solace" of Jimmy's life.

A calm night in the trenches. Thomas feels a tap on his helmet and smiles up at Jimmy as the blond hops into the dug out earth. His heart performs little pirouettes when their arms brush up against one another.

"We're technically in a big, long grave, you and I," Jimmy breaks the silence as he stares in the distance mournfully.

Thomas snorts. "Ever the optimist." He privately gloats over the "you and I" (not that Jimmy insinuated anything, of course).

"Being realistic is what I am! Just think of it, we dug our own tombs! We're in makeshift coffins, bidin' our time, and-"

"Jimmy, stop. You're much too young to consider such a thing," Thomas helpfully reminds him through clenched teeth. He is rapidly becoming depressed. Trying to change the subject, he asks, "How old are you, anyway?"

"Twenty-three, you?"

"Thirty-two, if you must know," Thomas pauses, his curiosity piqued. "Did you volunteer?"

Jimmy smiles wistfully. "Had to. My father was going to enlist, but mum would be on her own. She's quite sick, you see. I send home my pay to help afford the doctor..." He trails off, as if deep in thought.

Thomas feels quite touched. He settles himself more comfortably against the trench wall. "You're very brave to do so. I'm sure your mum is recovering as we speak."

The Private nods slowly. He doesn't ask Thomas his reason, and Thomas gladly fails to mention it. Instead, he slips his fingers into his pocket, tracing his card. They sit in a vigil-esque silence, enjoying one another's company.

Jimmy speaks. "We're to push past their front lines soon," He says it matter-of-factly, devoid of any reasonable emotion. Removes his helmet and brushes his hair back. "Want us to bayonet the enemies, render their snipers dead. Though they might as well tell us to just walk right into No Man's Land."

Thomas stares at him, mouth agape. A sudden wave of weariness washes over his body, and he feels very tired. He understands their pact now. "Why didn't you say so earlier?" He asks weakly. His head is spinning.

Jimmy lifts his shoulders up, nonchalant. "Wasn't worth it at the time." His voice breaks and he shivers.

Thomas shifts, facing him fully. He's about to offer Jimmy his jacket until he realises that the blond is crying, not trembling from the cold.

"God, I'm pathetic...!" Jimmy sniffs, focuses on Thomas with red-rimmed eyes. It brings out the deep blue of his irises and Thomas drowns in them.

"You're not pathetic...," Thomas begins, but Jimmy erupts into another sob, face buried in the crook of an elbow. He reaches out tentatively, places a comforting hand on Jimmy's arm. The younger male's head shoots up, and he makes out as if to jerk away.

But Thomas finds himself unable to believe as Jimmy takes his hand and clasps it firmly.

Jimmy grows quiet, gripping Thomas' hand as if the Corporal was going to fade away at any moment.

"I fear it, death," he murmurs. He looks at Thomas. "But what of it? Everyone dies... it was silly of me to even bring this up..." Jimmy pauses, as if struggling for words. "I only wanted your sympathy, see... because you mean ever so much to me, Thomas. And your words help. But I'm so sorry."

Thomas grasps Jimmy's hand, his thumb barely grazing the other's knuckles. "You've nothing on this earth to apologise to me for... you're not going to die, Jimmy," He's surprised by how steady his voice remains, the conviction behind his words. "You're a fighter, I believe in you... and besides," Thomas pauses, wonders if he could say it. He throws his cares away. "Besides, what would I be without you?" He blushes immediately.

This earns him a smile. Jimmy squeezes his hand, wiping his eyes with the cuff of his uniform. "A chap with a dull life, I suppose." He loosens his grip, but still keeps their hands wrapped.

They stayed linked together like that, a chain of comfort, until dawn.


	6. Chapter 6

"Why do you bother with that?"

Thomas stills his blade, catching Jimmy's reflection in the mirror. He clears his throat and resumes shaving, steadying both his hammering heart and his movements. "'Cos I can." He wets the blade and wipes it off before resuming.

He's bending over an excuse for a hand mirror anchored in the dirt wall. Under it, there's a tin bowl of water balanced upon spare boards. It's absurd, he knows. Still, he feels slightly more civilised by the luxury of shaving.

Jimmy leans against the dirt wall, watching Thomas intently. He absently strokes the side of his own cheek. "Funny, I haven't ever grown a beard. Just smooth, through and through."

Concentrating on pulling the last bit of shaving cream away, Thomas merely hums in response. He taps his blade into the bowl of murky water and turns to face Jimmy, toweling his face. "I'm not the only one who cares for vanity," he points out, gesturing to Jimmy. "Look at you and your perfect hair, always so styled."

Jimmy smiles happily. "Looks like I'm doing it right then, if you think it's 'perfect'," He shoulders past Thomas to check himself in the mirror, smoothing a stray hair back into place. "If I'm going to die, I might as well look good while I'm at it."

Thomas glances at him before guiltily averting his gaze away. It's a game he's been reduced to play: see how long he can stare without being noticed.

"What do you miss most? Back home, I mean." Jimmy moves to stand by him. Thomas is caught off guard by the seemingly casual inquiry.

"Should you not be on duty now?" He asks, throwing Jimmy a disapproving frown.

Jimmy snorts. "What, do you honestly think I'm needed out there now? It's been quiet ever since we got out of the echelon and took over Guillemont."

Thomas thinks. "Ah, well then… I suppose I miss my cigarettes."

Jimmy gives him a bemused expression. "You're already out?"

"Unfortunately," he mumbles, already beginning to crave the blasted things.

"Ah," Jimmy says. "Then I might have the most agreeable of solutions."

Thomas raises a brow skeptically when Jimmy fishes around in his pocket. The blond pulls out a cartridge of cigarettes, dangling them near Thomas' face. "_Voila_."

Thomas takes them, incredulous. "Where did you..." he began-

"Pilfered them from a corpse," Jimmy replies evenly. When Thomas immediately pales and drops them, he laughs.

"Kidding, kidding. I won them off a bloke from a game of cards. Could've reaped in more if I had another ace." He stooped to pick up the pack.

Thomas instinctively reaches for the very same card in his pocket, but thinks against it, unwilling to raise suspicion. When Jimmy presses the cigarettes into his palm, he tries to smile. "Much obliged."

"Now," Jimmy casually takes Thomas' arm and leads him into the daylight. "Tell me what you really miss."


	7. Chapter 7

Thomas stares at the skies, black except for the occasional lashes of lightening. A steady patter of rain thrums against his helmet, dripping into his eyes and rolling down the contours of his cheeks. His cigarette lays perched between his lips, and he inhales deeply from time to time, ignoring the thunderstorm above for the most part.

He's been able to attend to the wounded more and man the trenches less and less. It doesn't quell the anger he feels for being shoved into the war with a gun glued to his hands any less, this "promotion". He still had to train; become a machine made for nothing but slaying the enemy at all costs. Had to endure the stench, the nightmares. The only reason he offers to take an occasional shift in the front-lines is for Jimmy. To catch a glimpse of him, or have a scrap of a conversation. At this rate, he'll gladly accept whatever he can get.

"_Medic_!"

He breathes out from his nose, spitting the cigarette to the ground. Rolls up his sleeves and strides into the tent. A man holds out a basin of muddy water toward him, and Thomas dips his hands in, scrubbing them thoroughly even though he knows it doesn't eliminate germs. Probably helps breed 'em, he muses.

The soldier he tends to is a bullet wound victim, and has already fainted from either the excruitating pain or sheer shock, though it's most likely both. Thomas deduces that the bullet is still lodged in the man's side, and he presses a wad of dirtied material to the oozing wound, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. Too soon the raggedy cloth grows dark with dampness, and Thomas has to reach for the pliers.

The man falls out of sleep and murmurs something groggily when Thomas presses the metal into his side.

"Sorry 'bout this," Thomas mutters, plunging the pliers into the entry of the wound while the soldier screeches in intense pain. It doesn't take long before he faints once more, much to Thomas' relief.

He manages to locate the ball of metal, digging it out as delicately as he can. Blood rushes from the gap in response, and Thomas is quick to stitch the wound, though infection is inevitable and the man will most likely die. He tries not to dwell on it, instead moving to the next body moaning in agony.


	8. Chapter 8

"Are you taking your leave to go back to Downton?" Jimmy asks him over breakfast one morning.

Thomas licks his lips, taking a drink of tea. It's tasteless and bitter;_ the army certainly doesn't cater to comfort_, he notes drily.

"Don't really see the point. I would like to stop by the hospital there, though. Perhaps beg for a transfer," he smiles, joking, but Jimmy takes on an expression of horror.

"I'm not that apt to leave you behind, helpless and alone," he adds, striving to appear more smug than pleased.

"Helpless? Please, I am anything but! I just don't want to have to make a best mate all over again! It's a tedious process," Jimmy fails to hide his worry behind a glare.

Thomas can't suppress his smirk. "The lady doth protest too much."

The blond jabs him heartily in the ribs and they are able share a laugh.

"You don't have any family or friends that are eager for your safe return?" Jimmy suggests, looking at Thomas with a questioning gaze.

Well, no, he didn't. Not really, that is. Thomas reaches for a cigarette, quickly lighting it and bringing the rolled paper to his lips. "There's nothing for me there. Only some who hate me, which leaves the rest to merely dislike me; a trifle less than actually _hating_," he pauses, punctuating his words with an ominous cloud of smoke. "Wouldn't be coming home to much of a welcome party."

"Ah, the 'old' Thomas," Jimmy says, perplexed, as he props his chin up with a hand. "Will I ever get to witness this malevolent side of you?"

Thomas smiles wryly. "Wishin' to raise the evil spirits, are we?"

Jimmy chuckles. "I daresay I'll raise the devil himself, as you convey yourself to be!"

_You could raise much more_, Thomas thinks, and red immediately covers his face. Thankfully, Jimmy takes no notice. If anything, he found the blond's vain nature to be quite endearing. It reminded him of his own youthful days; arrogant and self-centred.

"Anyway, the reason I ask is because I was going to spend my week in Paris," I didn't know if you were available to split a hotel or doss house? They're terribly expensive and all," Jimmy continues.

Thomas ignores the phantom-like flutters in his chest.

"How much per night?" He forces his tone to remain as careless as possible.

"Mmm, 'bout four, five shillings. Extra if we want breakfast and dinner, but there's a good pub nearby called the Rouge Panthère," Jimmy peers at him. "Is that a yes, then?"

Thomas simulates deep consideration. "Hmmm… Paris? Bus fare is bloody expensive… but I suppose it's better than staying in this mess." He smiles at Jimmy. "Shall we hire a cicerone?"

Grinning happily, Jimmy claps Thomas on his shoulder. "Anything you wish!"

Thomas hardly doubts Jimmy could grant all of his wishes.


	9. Chapter 9

By the time they're packed and on the bus, Thomas feels as if he left his body. It's an odd sensation, one composed of haggard relief and impending disappointment. He thinks it's a hollow irony; spending a weekend to forget, only to be forced to return to the horrors and remember.

Jimmy bounces his knee up and down excitedly, eagerly watching the bleak landscapes fade into humble towns and glamourous cities. The ride takes roughly two hours, two whole hours that Thomas has the opportunity to simply be next to Jimmy.

"Paris will do me some good," Jimmy is saying. "One other thing to cross off the list." Thomas notices they fail to mention the war. Or rather, conveniently leave gaps to be filled with subjects of lighter matter. Jimmy hasn't mentioned the night when they held each other in comfort. Thomas thinks of it every waking second, the smell of Jimmy; like sunshine and earth, the press of his fingers, his usual smug demeanor then nervous and shameful. He can't help but still dream of them together on an island. A nice stretch of land all to themselves where they could be happy. Where Thomas could be happy. _But dreams_, he tells himself, _are merely failed realities_.

The blond speaks fondly of his youth and home, his caring parents. It's a childhood Thomas never thought possible.

"But you were so...-" he struggles for the correct term.

"Poor," Jimmy supplies brightly. "Poor, yes. But happy. Me father never set a hand on mum like the others would, not even when he was laid off and we had to make do with nothing, really. It was all because they were terribly in love, that's why. Love...! It's a strange thing, it is. Makes people do odd things."

"Quite." Thomas agrees.

Looking him in the eyes, Jimmy tilts his head to the side. "You know of it, then?"

Thomas stills, thinking of the Duke. A lovely summer that wilted into cruel winter storms. He thought he knew love, until it revealed itself to be something malicious. He remembers various men whom he took up with throughout the years, always leaving him empty handed and sick with sadness. He drops his gaze. "I think," he quietly tells Jimmy. "I think it takes a very long time to truly find love in another."

Jimmy regards him for a moment. "Perhaps... you're not looking in the correct direction."

Thomas' head shoots up in surprise, but Jimmy's attention is on the window once more.

**[[ AN: Again, sorry for the short chapters. Next few shall be longer. :) ]]**


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